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Marcaeus
=Four Years Ago..= Arbalestier of Brythunia’s City-State Enlisted Reserves. Veteran of the Nemedian Border-Campaigns. His service in numerous skirmishes with the Nemedian Horde has dubbed him “One of Eleven”, true masters of the art of puncturing both steel and leather indiscriminately. Achieving the notoriety of being able to swiftly decimate a phalanx of charging warriors, due to the tested patrimonial skills of marksmen before him. This praise, although generous, did not mean much to Marcaeus. He saw Brythunia as a failing government. Young men gave their lives, as the “throne” stood exhausted. The true power lying in the hands of those running their wealthy mining businesses and taking advantage of Brythunia’s vast space of resources. It was inevitable. A shining gold-mine waiting on those determined enough to take. -- Marcaeus entered the Division Compound in hopes of tracking down the acting rear-commander, Perceleito. There was news from the field- rumors of Nemedian siege with assistance from Vanir scouts, offered yet another realization of Brythunia’s impending loss. Request for aid from the pockets of Cimmerian-bloc units that held camp in the compound, would be the turning point in preventing any advances for at least seven weeks. Marcaeus already knew the answer he was going to get, but within that answer was a choice of his own; the choice of either leaving Brythunia for good, or fighting for her to his death. Cursing under his breath, he sprinted from tent to tent, finding nothing but drunks, malingerers and whores. It was obvious the realization of failure had hit the rear. These men have given up on their country already. He took a deep breath, approaching freshly new soldiers from the Cimmerian-bloc. Their laughs died down as they saw the senior enlisted brythunian. Standing up, either out of respect or gibe. He decided to speak their native, to further expedite his search. “Hebt u koper rond hier gezien?” Marcaeus queried on the absence of officers from the compound. “Neh.. Van ergens het drinken hun aal, fehckin’ van whores.” They all laughed. Marcaeus, ignoring their archetypical reply, continued his way. Peering in an assembly, he finally found the elusive brass. Upon entering, his salute was brisk and quick, ignoring the town girl next to him that made the environment unbecoming of an officer. “Commander, my report fro-“ “Harthesis! How goes my favored Arbalista’! Sit- Sit.. Yours news is old news, today we celebrate the death of the King.” “-Sir? What happened?” “Nothing. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen. He still lives, dead to our people. He will wait ‘til our enemies flood through our gates, and slaughter our children. Our armies are exhausted, their morale vanished, defending a throne of.. Marionettes!” This both angered and relieved Marcaeus. Commander Perceleito had truly confirmed his decision. He stood at attention, briskly saluting a last time. Alas, Marcaeus' last rite of service. “Sir, it has been an honor serving under you.” Perceleito smirking, returned the salute to Marcaeus. “We are men. Mortals. Our fate lies within ourselves. The world is too vast to waste our lives in this failure. I wish you luck, young Harthesis. You were a good one.” Marcaeus relaxed, curiously asking, “And what will you do, Perceleito?” “There is yet still money in our coffers, and women in our arms. What army could stop us? Right now, I am a man, living the dream of men. If the Kingdom wants it, let them come take it! Guarantee though, that won’t happen.” Marcaeus nodded, stepping out from the sweet smoked tent, looking towards the horizon from the steppes of the Karpash mountains. He embraced the fresh night air. The smell of freedom. To the west, past Nemedia. A shining jewel. Aquilonia..